Blood of the Innocents

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I have seen another body like that. I have heard of many more,’ Berenger said. He cast an eye about his men thoughtfully.

  ‘Whoever this man is, he should be cut away from the rest of the army,’ Bill said. ‘It is one thing to obey orders to kill as a punishment, but another to kill with cruelty for sport.’

  Clip shrugged. ‘What is the difference? If we’re told to kill everyone in a town, what does it matter whether a girl is stabbed once, or killed another way? She’ll be just as dead.’

  ‘If you cannot tell the difference, you are lost,’ Berenger said sharply. ‘You remember Béatrice, don’t you? If she were to be killed, better that she should suffer as little as necessary, rather than she should be forced to submit to rape and then be killed in as slow a manner as possible.’

  ‘What says she died that slowly?’ Clip asked. ‘Being tied to a board to be raped, and then had her throat cut. Doesn’t sound too bad. Many are slowly strangled. I’d think that would be worse.’

  Berenger was going to answer, but he had no words. ‘Tell the men to prepare to ride,’ he said. He was thinking: the other deaths all happened when Will and his men were about. Now another body was discovered.

  Bill was soon back on his own mount. ‘I tell you, Fripper. There was something about that child’s murder that made me think. I’ll need a quart of wine to sleep well this night.’

  Berenger nodded and patted Bill’s horse’s neck. ‘I know. I recall only too clearly the woman I saw treated in the same manner.’

  ‘And I keep thinking, it could be anyone in our army,’ Bill said. ‘When I sit and eat with another man, I will always wonder whether that was the man who killed that child. Whether it was his hands who tied her and made her suffer, then cut her throat, and those same hands are now breaking the bread for me. How can a man sit while thinking that?’

  ‘The man who did that before was in my company. I was ejected from the company, but the man who killed girls and children that way was still there. Have you seen any sign of the company under Will’s command?’

  Bill frowned quickly. ‘Will? I saw him only two days ago. He is with Audley searching for a crossing point.’

  Berenger tried not to sound too eager. So, this latest victim was found only a matter of a day or so since Will’s party had ridden this way. Which of the men could be guilty of this, he wondered. None of his old party struck him as so crazed that they would treat a child like this.

  He said, ‘Two days ago where?’

  Robin was at Berenger’s side as Bill and his men took their leave of the vintaine, and he glanced at Berenger’s face as the little group rode off.

  ‘What?’ Berenger asked.

  ‘Frip, I trust you, but you have too much interest in this man Will and your old company.’

  ‘I have little interest in them.’

  ‘So we shall not ride off after them?’

  ‘Of course not. We’ll ride to check any possible crossing points over the river. That is all.’

  ‘And if we run into this man Will’s company, what then?’

  ‘If we run into a group that attacks us or tries to ambush us, we will respond as Englishmen,’ Berenger said levelly. He looked at Robin. ‘And if I find a murderer in my path, I will execute him as I would any wolf’s-head.’

  ‘Are you seeking this man for revenge because he stole your company from you?’

  ‘No! I seek him for other reasons.’

  ‘It’s true that he stole your woman, then?’

  Berenger’s mouth gaped. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘It is common enough news about the army. You were enraged when he took your woman and—’

  ‘Ballocks! He wanted my woman, but when she chose to leave her house, her town, her life in order to be with me, that prick had us waylaid on the road! It was only the presence of Fulk and Saul that saved me from dying just as she and her two sons did! If you doubt me, ask Fulk! He was there too. He can tell you the truth!’

  Robin nodded slowly. ‘I will ask Fulk and Saul, but even if they tell me you are speaking the truth, Frip, what does that mean about hunting down Will? Will it help the Prince or our army to chase him, even if he is the killer of a number of French girls or women?’

  ‘You don’t mind a man doing such things? You condone his actions?’

  Robin’s eyes went hard and flat. ‘I condone nothing, Frip. But I won’t see this vintaine thrown into a fight against this man just because you have a beetle up your arse and dislike the man enough to risk your life and all ours in order to get revenge.’

  ‘You would allow him to—’

  ‘I allow nothing! You do not listen to me, Frip. Listen carefully now: I will not see the men of this vintaine killed needlessly to satisfy some whim of yours for revenge, however well-meaning it may be; and I will not see the men thrown into a pointless chase when it goes against all our orders. So if you mean to test your men’s mettle and seek your own oblivion at the same time, I will not help you.’

  Sunday 28 August

  They were up before the dawn.

  Berenger felt light-headed, almost as though he had the start of a hangover at the back of his head when he climbed to his feet. The heavy dew overnight had sprinkled his blanket with moisture until it looked like frost. There was more in his beard, and when he rubbed his face, his hand came away wet.

  They had ridden hard last afternoon, reaching this place just after dark, all the men weary, the ponies and rounseys exhausted, almost too tired to eat as they were rubbed down and set to crop the thick grasses. The men themselves muttered and complained about the location, the lack of decent firewood, the smell of the place – everything. But it was a quiet grumbling, not the whining of true bitterness. After some cold food, all had settled quickly.

  He had an old felted cap, and he pulled this on now against the cool morning air. It was wet, but it kept the wind from his thinning hair, and he was grateful for it as he moved among his men, kicking a foot here or there and calling all to arms.

  ‘Oh, aye, we can’t expect a late morning on the day we’re to move north,’ Clip grumbled.

  ‘What, do you want the French King to get to Tours before we can sack the place?’ This was from Nick. His dark eyes had worn a perpetually nervous expression since the death of Gilles. The two had already been comrades when he first met them, Berenger recalled. Now he looked like a peasant who remembered he should have locked away the chickens, and it was too late. The fox had already got in among them.

  ‘When you’ve marched over as much of France as I have, and seen as many friends killed as I have, then you can take the piss, Nick. Till then, just hope that you’ll survive like I have.’

  Nick’s face took on an alarmed horror as he absorbed the vision that was Clip. ‘Dear God in Heaven, you mean that is the best we can hope for?’

  ‘Go swyve a . . .’

  Berenger was content. While the men were bickering and complaining about the food, the weather, their horses, the quality of their leadership, and making humorous comments about Clip, he knew that they were happy. It was when they became quiet and pliant that he knew there was a problem.

  It struck him suddenly that this was the kind of thinking he would have known during the Crécy campaign. In those days he had been a professional soldier, he thought, and that made him realise just how far he had sunk in the intervening years. It had taken a decade for him to be broken. Once he had been a respected fighter. Now, he had gone through hard times, losing his wife and children, and had discovered a new life viewed from the bottom of a jug of wine.

  But now he was himself again. He truly felt that.

  Berenger and his men rode solidly that morning, and they were rewarded early in the afternoon by the sight of Sir James Audley’s column.

  ‘We’re English!’ he bellowed to the scouts sent to challenge him. They soon accepted him and allowed him to approach the main force.

  There was a fierce excitement in Berenger’s breast at the sight
of the force ahead of him. At last he felt as though he was close to Will and would be able to exact revenge. He could feel the flames of his rage licking up from his stomach to heat his chest and heart until his lungs themselves seemed clogged with it, and he thought that if he were to have any more anger in him his soul must be consumed.

  He hunted all along the column as they rode past, looking for a face, a familiar slouch, a hat or cloak that reminded him of any of the men from his old company, but as he went he saw nothing. There was no one. He cast a glance back at Fulk and Saul. Fulk sat shaking his head as he jogged along on his pony, clearly disapproving of the venture, but Berenger would not allow any man to get in his way today.

  He was determined to find Will.

  As Berenger rode off to overhaul the English, there came a blast on a horn and then bellowed commands.

  ‘They want to talk to you, Frip,’ Fulk rumbled. ‘I think they want to know why we are in so much hurry to get in front.’

  ‘Shut up, Fulk,’ Berenger said. He looked about him. ‘Robin, Fulk, you will ride on. I’ll catch you up later.’

  He turned his pony and trotted back to the main column.

  Audley welcomed him. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  ‘Berenger Fripper, sir. I’m vintener in Sir John de Sully’s force.’

  ‘I see. Where are you riding?’

  ‘I’ve been instructed to see if I can find a bridge over the river. I was attached to the Captal de Buch’s column, but I seem to have overtaken him, so I thought I should ride on here and see what I could learn about the enemy. There are tales of French cavalry ahead.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Chandos said. ‘We are riding to see if we can cross the river soon. With luck we’ll find a bridge or two that can still be used.’

  ‘I hope so, sir. If I find one I shall send men back to tell you and give you directions.’

  ‘That is good. Carry on, then, Fripper.’

  ‘Sir.’

  He rode away, feeling a thrill of excitement deep in his bowels. It felt to him that God was determined to remove all impediments to his successful capture of Will.

  But even God can have a change of heart.

  They rode through a narrow defile and on up a valley, before finally breasting a hill; there they were presented with a series of fields, the crops ripening nicely. It was a scene of rich plenty. ‘I could live in a place like this,’ a man said, and Berenger thought, yes. This was a land worth winning. A land worth fighting for, a land worth dying for. Perhaps he would be able to come here and live with a monastery. A kindly abbot may allow him to live as a lay-brother, working to erase the stains he had earned on his soul.

  They came to a lip, and before them they could see a wide plain leading to the river.

  It was a strange place. Dykes criss-crossed it, the water in them gleaming silver in the sunshine; stands of coppiced willow dotted it, and alder, and reeds formed great green swathes. The reek of marshes came to them on the wind.

  ‘I hope there is a bridge,’ Fulk said.

  ‘Aye, shite, I can’t swim, Frip, you know that,’ Clip whined.

  Berenger followed their eyes. The rains of the last days had filled the river so that where a meandering watercourse had once lazily idled, now a torrent raged.

  He stared with encroaching despair to see the mad waters. It was thick, wide and brown with silt and sand, and it had broken over its banks and flooded large parts of the plain before him. At first he stared keenly, trying to strain his eyes to see the company of men which Will had taken from him, but as he peered at the view, he could see nothing. There was no sign of a group of men riding over that sodden landscape, no glint of steel in the sunshine, no rising dust from four hundred hoofs. Nothing.

  He slumped back in his saddle struck dumb with the enormity of his disappointment. All the way here he had been convinced that he would encounter Will and that somehow, before the end of the day, Will would be dead. To be confronted with this emptiness was shattering.

  ‘Is that him?’ Fulk asked.

  Berenger shot him a look, and then gazed in the same direction. There, over at the farthest extent of the plain, far over to the west, there was a thin line. Of course there was no dust, he told himself. The whole area was drenched in water from the rain and now the river, but that looked like a winding line of men making their way through an unfamiliar and rather dangerous landscape.

  ‘Yes! It must be them!’ he cried and spurred his horse.

  The road took them down a slope and then on towards the Loire. It was not steep, but after all the rains, the road was slippery and treacherous, with shifting gravels making their beasts slide and slither uncomfortably. Soon they reached the bottom, and were thundering through the puddles and mud towards the little line of men in the distance.

  Berenger cursed his eyesight. He was sure that Will was riding on at speed, but it was impossible to tell with his eyes. Normally it would be possible to gauge distances by the height and thickness of the plume of dirt and dust that were thrown up by the hoofs, and without that he felt oddly naked, as though he was being watched by hundreds of unseen eyes. There were few trees nearby, but as they rode, Berenger was aware of rows of small bushes and thick scrubland that could hide a hundred crossbowmen. It was daunting to ride along, expecting at any time to hear a screamed command and see ranks of archers rise with crossbows ready, hear that hideous thrumming of strings, and see the bolts flying at them. At close quarters like this there was little a man could do to protect himself from crossbows, apart from pray for safety and hope that the first wave of missiles missed him. If the first missed, there was always the hope that a man could ride in and hack at the archers before they could latch their strings to their belt hooks to span them a second time.

  But blessedly there was no array of archers here and Berenger rode on with his unease dissipating. Not entirely leaving him, but at least losing some of its intensity. Soon he would be in front of Will, and then . . .

  ‘Frip, I don’t like this,’ Robin said.

  ‘What is there to like? We’ll ride to them and . . .’

  ‘They don’t look English. That looks to me more like a party of men-at-arms than English bowmen. They are all armoured, and I can see no bows. Can you?’

  Berenger was not prepared to discuss the imperfections of his eyesight. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Shit!’

  Clear on the air there came the sound of orders, a blast on a horn, and the whole line of men before them halted and began to turn to face them.

  Berenger looked up at Robin. ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure!’

  Fulk peered ahead. ‘They all bear lances.’

  Clip said. ‘Aye, well, we’re all going to get killed this day.’

  ‘Shut up, Clip,’ Berenger snapped. Now he could see them more clearly. They were turning in the narrow way. ‘Vintaine! Let’s get out of here! Retreat!’

  Berenger knew that the lightly armoured archers had only one chance of escape, and that was to make it to the hillside once more before the French could catch them. Once they were rising up that slope, the French beasts would tire much more swiftly, and with luck the English could reach the top and make some distance before the men-at-arms could do anything. If they were enormously fortunate, he realised, the English columns might also have closed the distance between them. Perhaps the hunters could become the hunted.

  They were lashing their beasts now, hurtling up the slope as quickly as they could, the ponies lagging on their shorter legs, the rounseys taking longer strides, but suffering with the loose stones, scrambling up the roadway as fast as they could, the panic of their riders communicating itself to them. Berenger glanced over his shoulder to see that the French were gaining on them already. There was a lip at the top, and he found he was urging his pony on with jerks and wrenches of the reins, as though his own efforts could help the beast on, but even as he rode, he could feel his mount flagging. There was a rattling like hail on a
wooden panel as its hoofs caught on stones and pebbles, unable to lift its legs as high as before.

  ‘Frip!’ he heard from Robin, but he gritted his teeth and drew his pony to the right of the lane to give his men space to escape. His pony tried two more great lunges with his hindquarters, but that was all he could manage, and Berenger could feel the energy seeping from him as the pony tried to gulp in air after his massive effort.

  ‘Ride on! Go on!’ he shouted at his men as they stared at him. Clip had a look almost of despair, and then Dogbreath reached him.

  ‘Aye, fuck this. I’ve never liked horses,’ Dogbreath declared, and dropped from his saddle.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Berenger roared. ‘In the name of God, mount up and ride back, you fool!’

  ‘Swyve a donkey, Vintener! I’m stayin’,’ Dogbreath said, smiling his horrible leer as he grabbed his sword.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Berenger said. ‘Follow me!’

  He sprang from the road onto the loose scrub and slippery pebbles that lined the edges of the hillside here. Running, he hoped to evade capture again. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that Dogbreath had grabbed his bow and a handful of arrows from his quiver, and now was chasing after Fripper.

  There was a shout from the roadway, and he saw three horsemen turn towards them. The rest carried on up the hill, labouring under the weight of men and steel, and Berenger wondered that none of them had died with all that cargo on their backs.

  ‘How many were there, Dogbreath?’ he asked, panting as his foot slid on the loose scree.

  ‘At least a hundred, I’d think.’

  Berenger glanced behind him. One of the horses was making ill weather of the hillside, and had slid down six feet. For a fully laden warhorse this hillside was no fun. Berenger continued, trying to keep his footing on the treacherous slope, but suddenly he heard a yelp and saw Dogbreath go tumbling down the slope on his backside, before fetching up in the midst of some ragged bushes, where he remained, cursing volubly and with imagination on the subject of France generally and French men-at-arms in particular.